


Flesh

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Body Worship, Dry Humping, F/M, Jughead really likes Betty's body, which turns into wet humping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 14:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14380131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: Jughead loves Betty's body. And churros, he also loves churros.





	Flesh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MotherMaple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherMaple/gifts).



He dreams of her on the pole dressed in black and singing about happy birthdays and mad worlds, a sad song totally inappropriate for a dance. In Jughead’s dream there’s no one else in the Wyrm, just him in the shadows while Betty revolves in a skin-tight outfit.

Those narrow bands of silk aren’t the focus of his quickening lust, so sensitive where she’s concerned. Yes, he wants to see her dressed like that, but there’s another focus for his desire.

That night he saw her, so brave on that stage and about to be abandoned by him. Jughead shifts in his sleep, maybe to accommodate his half-chubbed erection.

It’s the skin that turns him on so desperately. Betty displays a strip of flesh between the black silk knickers and lacey bra, a little pooch of stomach protruding over the elastic. And in his dream, he comes out of his dark corner, vaults onto the stage, and reaches out to touch that little strip of soft skin.

Jughead Jones wakes with a start just in time to fist himself and spill once, twice, three times before he collapses onto the pillow with a gasp.

#

Betty seems determined to torture him in school – a most unfair thought, since she’s totally unaware of his new obsession. Jughead catches her practically climbing into her locker, muttering about a lost Spanish book and how she’ll be late for class.

“Churros are Spanish,” he blurts. Jughead has lost all capacity to think, since her sweater has come untucked to reveal the dimples above her butt.

Emerging from her locker, Betty gapes at him. “Churros?”

He clears his throat. “We should – we should probably write an article about churros. Hear me out, Betts – people think those sticks you get in the mall are churros, and we should. You know. Set them straight.”

She grins suddenly. “And you want to start this important investigation today?”

“Yes. So, meet me at the trailer later?”

“Not the Blue and Gold?”

“I want to give that snazzy new Underwood a workout.” _Smooth, Forsythe, smoooooth._

Shooting him double finger guns, Betty winks and walks off, Spanish book in her fist. Jughead shouldn’t look back to check out her denim backside, really he shouldn’t.

But he does.

#

After months of eating and enjoying pastries at the bodega, Jughead has a shaky friendship with the cook. Armed with unashamed begging and the promise of free beers at the Wrym, he manages to winkle a plate of real churros straight from the fryer.

He nearly chows them all because Frederico makes the best, but Jughead manages to bring most of the plate back to the trailer intact. The scent of cinnamon quickly fills the little kitchenette, and when Betty enters she sniffs inquiringly. “Did you really bring churros? Are we seriously doing this?”

“Don’t question me.” Jughead plucks one of the fragrant pastries out of the plate, holds it between finger and thumb, brushes it against her lower lip. “Eat.”

“I really shouldn’t. There’s Vixen practice tomorrow, and I already – mmmm!” Too late. Jughead watches as her white teeth, just slightly uneven, bite into the treat. “Hey,” Betty adds, licking her lips with one kitten-swipe. “That’s really delicious, not what I expected at all. But are we really going to write an article about these – oh, no, Jug. No more, thanks.”

“How about now?” He bites one end of a churro and approaches her with it, Pocky-style. Betty’s eyes widen before she bursts into giggles and finally bites the other end.

After his dream, Jughead isn’t about to let this perfect chance go to waste. He pulls her close and relishes the sugar on her teeth, the little gasp as their lips meet. “Do you like that?” he whispers against her mouth, never breaking the kiss. “Do you want more?”

“Delicious,” she murmurs, and oh God, he can taste her words. “But fattening…”

He pulls away, frames her face with both hands, and looks into her eyes. “I like that,” Jughead says. “I like the way you look. In fact if you put on a few pounds I’d probably never let you leave my bed.”

“What?” Betty blinks. “Jug, I barely fit these jeans as it is. I have to suck it in to zip, and when I raise my arms…”

“When you raise your arms,” he interrupts, “your sweater rides up and I get to see your belly. Right here.” He strokes the thin wool, waiting until she gives him the go ahead. “It drives me crazy. I could spend all night kissing and stroking you there because you know what? It’s soft, so soft. Like silk. And as for your butt, well. Glory hallelujah is all I can say.”

Under orange light from the old thrift store lamp, her eyes glisten with sudden moisture. “Really?”

“Really.” Jughead leans in again, waits for her to say No and he’s ridiculous right now, but Betty surprises him by grasping his collar and pulling him in for a long kiss. Her mouth is warm and, under his, a parting wonder of teeth and delicious tongue. He can’t help humming at the taste, the way they flicker and slide together.

And he’s hard against her thigh, and he knows she can feel it. Carefully, waiting for any signal he’s gone too far, Jughead slides one and two and three fingers under the hem of her sweater to feel the rounded belly that’s been his obsession all day. Just as he thought, the flesh gives under his thumb like fresh bread or perfect and ripe fruit.

Betty stops the kiss and peeps at him through her lashes, covering his hand with hers. “You could put it here,” she whispers. “Rub against me and spill all over my skin.”

_Mother of God and all the apostles._ Jughead sucks in air, falls against her so they’re entangled, collapsing on the sulky couch. “FP’s sofa always looks like it’s shrugging its shoulders,” Betty has described it.

“I want that, I really really want us to do that,” he gabbles. “Jesus, Betty. You have no idea. I dreamed about your skin this morning and nearly went off in my pajamas.”

“Jughead Jones!” She laughs up at him. “I know you love food, but I didn’t realize just how far that went.”

He traces a line from her lips, down her throat, all the way between her breasts to the dip of navel. “I guess you could say I’m the kind who goes all in.”

“Maybe not now,” Betty says regretfully. “I might end up reenacting the hair gel scene from There’s Something About Mary, and that would be bad.”

“I have Kleenexes. I have handkerchiefs. You can shower. I’ll dry your hair for you.” In fact, as Jughead says it, he realizes how much he wants her wet tresses hanging heavy over his wrist.

“Ohhhh…kay.”

#

He pulls down the shades, and one nearly descends on the floor. Jughead will have to fix it later.

In the buzzing twilight, Betty lies among his pillows wearing panties and nothing else. Jughead stalks to the bed, kicks off his boots, and straddles her. His fingers curl, and on a whim he pulls out his switchblade.

“What are you going to do with that?” Her voice is sluggish, eyes half-lidded with want. Jesus, she’s so beautiful.

With one motion, Jughead pulls up the saddle of her prim little Vanity Fair underwear and slices it once, twice. The ruined garment falls onto the mattress. She’s completely exposed.

Betty arches up, moaning that she feels so naked and he owes her a new pair. “I’ll buy you more,” Jughead gasps. “Or you can wear the ones from the Wyrm. From your dance.”

“Wait.” Getting up on her elbows, Betty fixes him with a look. “I thought you didn’t like my outfit.”

“Are you kidding? They’re delicious – you’re delicious. I just don’t want other assholes ogling my girl.” He puts away his knife and leans forward. “In fact, when I watched you that night – well. That’s when I realized how much I like this.” Jughead carefully runs one knuckle over chest, abdomen, silky flanks.

“Juggy.” Betty blinks again. “I thought you were put off by my shape. I mean, Toni’s so skinny and perfect, and in contrast I’m just…”

“First, I never compared you two. Never. You’ve always been it for me, Cooper. Second, are we allowed to use that word again? _Perfect?_ Because _this_ is perfect.”

Bending, he punctuates each word with a kiss, and if her reaction is anything to go by, she’s liking it too. Betty bows backward, long line of her throat exposed. Jughead bites his way up to her earlobe, chin, lovely dip of collarbone.

He’s rocking against her, and it’s as ecstatic as his dream. Jughead splays one palm over her belly, thrusts into her hip. Slowly he becomes aware that she’s grumbling about his clothes, and fast as an escape artist Jughead yanks off belt, suspenders, flannel and pants in a single motion. It leaves him bare against her, flesh against flesh. It’s sparks, electricity, lightning.

Betty murmurs with approval, winds her legs around his hips, and urges him to do it again. It’s not like being inside – but nearly as soft, nearly as warm. Christ, it’s so hot.

“I want to watch,” she whispers.

“Both of us.” Jughead balances on one arm, reaches between her thighs, and searches for the little warm well down there. “We'll watch both of us. Betty Cooper, you’re sopping wet. Were the churros that good?”

One tiny amused cluck of her tongue, and he’s pulled against her for a series of shuddering thrusts. Quivers under his fingertip. Her face, intent on what’s happening. And when was the last time he felt so hard, so damn ready to shoot…

His cockhead reddens, purples. “Close,” Jughead gasps.

“Now. Now, for me, Juggy.”

With a stifled shout, he shoots silver arrows over Betty, her stomach and chest and, yes, her hair. It’s mm and oh and fuck, so damn good.

He’s got two brain cells left to rub together, and Jughead manages to concentrate on his girl, the off-center touch she likes, a brush brush brush until her cheeks blaze and she goes all liquid. Then he collapses on her.

Betty’s breath, whispering in his ear. After a few minutes, he realizes she’s saying actual words: “Sorry, I guess you got me so excited, I couldn’t help it, we’re going to have to wash these sheets, I’m so embarrassed.”

Belatedly Jughead feels that it’s wetter and hotter than it should be between them. His brain leaps with wondrous discovery. “Betty Cooper,” he says in awe. “Are you a spurter?”

“Oh God.” She covers her face with both hands. “You just got me going more than I expected. It happens sometimes, not for a while I guess, since we’ve been kind of stressed, and oh God.”

Captures her hands with his, her lips. “Betts,” he says into her mouth. “You are so fucking sexy.”

#

Just as he imagined, her wet hair winds over his forearm like a brush loaded with gold paint. Jughead kicks the bag of laundry out of his way and combs her hair, playing with the spiky ends.

“I’m still embarrassed,” Betty states, and he stops, puts the drugstore comb with broken teeth on the table.

“One day we’re going to have our own place,” Jughead says. “We can do what we want – I mean whatever we want without, you know, running into the smallest shower stall in the world to clean off afterwards. Maybe we’ll even have a bathtub! Hey, a guy can dream.”

“A bathtub,” she repeats dreamily.

“I’m just saying. Bet your skin is even softer underwater. Not that I’m plotting mischief, you understand.”

“I understand.” Betty reaches out, selects the biggest churro left on the paper plate, and bites into the sweet treat.

 


End file.
